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Latz liked her so, with her fragrantly coiffured head, scarcely gray, back against his shoulder, and with his newspapers, Wall Street journals and the comic weeklies which he liked to read, would sit an entire evening thus, moving only when his joints rebelled, his pipe smoke carefully directed away from her face.
"You like Louis Latz, don't you, Alma?" "Why yes, mama. Very much." "We can't all be young and handsome like Leo, can we?" "You mean " "I mean that finer and better men than Louis Latz aren't lying around loose. A man who treated his mother like a queen and who worked himself up from selling newspapers on the street to a millionaire." "Mama?" "Yes, baby. He asked me tonight.
Suddenly Miss Samstag was her coolly firm little self, the bang of authority back in her voice. "You can't marry Louis Latz." "Can't I? Watch me." "You can't do that to a nice, deserving fellow like him!" "Do what?" "That!" Then Mrs. Samstag threw up both her hands to her face, rocking in an agony of self-abandon that was rather horrid to behold. "Oh, God, why don't you put me out of it all?
Samstag's suspicion that here was no great stickler for variety of expression. "And a great sufferer, too," he said, noting the pressing fingers. She colored under this delightful impeachment. "I wouldn't wish one of my neuralgia spells to my worst enemy, Mr. Latz." "If you were mine I mean if the say was mine, I wouldn't stop until I had you to every specialist in Europe.
I won't live to bear that! You don't want me cured. You want to get rid of me, to degrade me until I kill myself! If I was ever anything else than what I am now to Louis Latz anything but his ideal Alma, you won't tell! Kill me, but don't tell don't tell!" "Why, you know I wouldn't, sweetheart, if it is so terrible to you. Never." "Say it again." "Never."
So often they discovered it was pleasanter to remain at home. Indeed, during these days of household adjustment, as many as four evenings a week Mrs. Latz dozed there against her husband's shoulder, until about ten, when he kissed her awake to forage with him in the great, white porcelain refrigerator and then to bed. And Alma. Almost, she tiptoed through these months.
"Mother and daughter, but which is which from the back, some of my friends put it," said Mrs. Samstag, not without a curve to her voice; then, hastily: "But the best child, Mr. Latz. The best that ever lived. A regular little mother to me in my spells." "Nice girl, Alma." "It snowed so the day of my husband's funeral. Why, do you know that up to then I never had an attack of neuralgia in my life.
Secretly he yearned for length of limb, of torso, even of finger. On this, one of a hundred such typical evenings in the Bon Ton lobby, Mr. Latz, sighing out a satisfaction of his inner man, sat himself down on a red-velvet chair opposite Mrs. Samstag.
It's been worse this last month because you've been nervous, dear. I understand now. You see, I didn't dream of you and Louis Latz. We'll forget we'll take a little two-room apartment of our own, darling, and get your mind on housekeeping, and I'll take up stenography or social ser " "What good am I, anyway? No good. In my own way. In my child's way.
He could see it where the carefully trimmed brown hair left it for a rise to skillful coiffure, and what threatened to be a slight depth of flesh across the shoulders had been carefully massaged of this tendency, fifteen minutes each night and morning, by her daughter. In fact, through the black transparency of her waist Mr. Latz thought her plumply adorable. It was about the eyes that Mrs.
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